29/08/2013 - THERE WAS A Z BUTTON

            There was a Z button underneath the table originally, it gleamed and coughed in binary code. The hero probably pressed it when he burst into the room through the air vent but at least he didn't fire at it with a plasma cannon. The light show would have looked awesome but the button would ultimately remain untouched. The Chimney has practiced the art of gentle hand technology, anything even close to abrasive force will result in an octopus skull.

            Next up - the cave full of diamonds and irritating excrement. Who gives a fuck? Who gives a fuck? I'll tell you exactly who gives a fuck, the pioneers of the human spirit! That's who! Those dudes are good for plenty, they constructed careful bombs and even set the template of the original, unedited 'inkling'. Erasmus usually takes credit for it but you can't trust a man who taints boom boxes whenever he crashes through a red light. Gridlock means nothing to Erasmus, especially when's borrowing Neil's sneaky cloak. Who needs baste fantasies when you can cork waterfalls with stuff and stuff alone? It's delicious, like unsheathed brittle.

            The hero passed through here too, you know. He was a fine physical specimen, fiercely protected by internet pixies with their hyperbolic wings. He had elements of an experimental biochemist only he was faster and more street smart in his approach to gradient knighthoods. He even found the other one, the false 'inkling', the one that fit in a whiskered flask. He fed it dried cheese flakes and burnt his wrist in the process. Yum.

            Either way, you know the drill by now: stasis is all well and good when it's rainy and thundering outside but isn't nor ever will be a salsa exemption. The hero had an a priori mindset and that was ultimately the death of him. Elevator shafts don't care if you recognise their existence or relevance before you approach them, they just let you drop as they stand still. The up thrust and wind resistance are the responsibility of the man alone, women need only tuck themselves in and hope for the soundest possible conclusion. If you do see a bloke who isn't plummeting to his sloppy demise then he is no doubt a contemporary poet and you must smack him around with a spoon on sight. We're talking pronto, sharpish territory here.

            The rules for women have been slackening as far as jihad his concerned, you can wag your tongues in cesspits but don't expect to get them back without any coppery blood on the tip and sides. The forces of nature may like you but the librarian of pain has no time to heal your soggy, red tickler. Lines are going down all over the place and contemporary poets are running off into the bushy hills with precious books in their heads and their ears sticking out. Equality is indeed on the horizon but would you like to see that horizon green with radiation and bearing its own teeth? Didn't think so.